


Breathe Me

by AniseNalci



Series: 7KPP Quarantine Prompts [3]
Category: Seven Kingdoms: The Princess Problem (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Panic Attacks, That I don't describe in great detail, The weight of responsibilities, heavy is the head that wears the crown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:35:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23730928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AniseNalci/pseuds/AniseNalci
Summary: Previous summit. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Constance needs to breathe. Hopefully no one takes her breath away.Written in response for 7KPP Prompts (Day 3: Breathe).
Relationships: Aamir/Constance (Seven Kingdoms)
Series: 7KPP Quarantine Prompts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1708210
Kudos: 6





	Breathe Me

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd so feel free to point out mistakes.
> 
> Title is from 'Breathe Me' by Sia.
> 
> Character guide:  
> \- Princess Constance  
> \- Crown Prince Aamir  
> \- King and Queen of Arland: Princess Constance's parents  
> \- Princess Chastity and Prince Clement: Princess Constance's younger sister and younger brother. Prince Clement is supposed to be the youngest of the siblings; at least in his iteration of the family  
> \- The Mistress of the Robes: Essentially the head of the Queen of Arland's ladies-in-waiting  
> \- Ayyub: A Corvallian nobleman, part of Crown Prince Aamir's retinue, who is drunk

“Princess Constance of Arland!” She was announced as she entered the hall, where the first ball of the Summit was held. Her courage did not waver. She stood, posture perfect, head held high, a perfect Princess of Arland. Never let it be said that she did not do her duty; she, of all people, knew her duty, after all. Duty was engrained into her very bones, the very fabric of her being.

She was a Princess of Arland. On her own, she held considerable worth. Her beauty nonpareil, with a slim, feminine figure, glossy locks and a perfect complexion. She could converse somewhat intelligently, and knew enough about everything. Her parents had instilled on her virtues which she hoped she was able to display favourably, current political climate notwithstanding. Arland was a respectable kingdom, and its people were nothing if not dutiful. She, herself, was a paragon among the youth for her unwavering dedication to Duty, and doing What Was Right.

There was a heaviness in the air, as silence permeated the hall, before there was a polite applause. What a scene it must be, she imagined. She had dressed in her second finest gown, a gossamer silk which shimmered with the light, lending her an ethereal appearance. Her dress was not quite as fine as those of Revaire or Corval, the richer countries (and source of such fine material for her gown). She knew, rather than saw, people stare up at her. She wondered what their opinion must have been.

By instinct, she gracefully descended down the stairs, nodding gracefully and occasionally bestowing a rather enigmatic smile; one that promised friendliness, of course, but from a distance. It would not be politically correct to pick favourites of the delegates during these tumultuous times, of course. Her mind itself was a hundred miles away, imagining what they must think of her.

_“So pretty, but so distant!”_

_“The Arlish Princess is lovely, but she seems like a porcelain doll; beautiful but without a hint of personality.”_

_“Never let it be said that the Arlish do not do their duty. Their lives revolve around it. This princess of theirs is all that is good and virtuous. And yet there is still something wanting.”_

* * *

_Still something wanting._ Those words had haunted her as a child. “She is a lovely child. A mite too quiet, I think, otherwise there could be nothing wanting,” a schoolmistress had once mentioned.

“She does not play like other children do, but she is as docile a child as I ever saw. So well-behaved! There is still something wanting though; perhaps a lack of affection?” Another had said.

“She is a good child, but not one prone to expression of her feelings. In her, her parents have instilled a strong sense of duty. I fear she will grow up suppressing her emotions for want of duty. I do not think she is unfeeling, and I fear that she will be doomed for unhappiness if this continues.”

* * *

As a child, she had found the Arlish court suffocating.

“Do this!”

“Not that!”

“Take great care and observe, Your Royal Highness…”

“How about this, Your Royal Highness? You should…”

It was a regimen of instruction and discipline that she grew up with. Time not spent in the schoolroom was carefully scheduled into what was deemed acceptable activities of leisure, which she often spent with courtiers and ladies. Here, she was still being instructed, of course, on how to behave with the utmost decorum and propriety.

“After all, Your Royal Highness, you are a Princess of Arland! You _must_ marry well!”

* * *

It was a wonder she hadn’t suffocated from the weight of the responsibilities heaped on her.

Her parents often told her to set a good example for her younger siblings.

“You may only be a Princess of Arland, but you have a duty to your siblings. Show Clement how to be a good, dutiful prince. Teach Chastity to be a kind, honourable princess,” her mother once instructed her, over the pretence of tea.

“Your most important duty may be to marry well for the benefit of our country, my dear, but by all means, it is not the only one.”

* * *

“Keep your eyes out for any handsome men,” one of her ladies in waiting had laughed, as her retinue assisted in packing for the Summit.

“ _Only_ if they are eligible, of course!” Another reminded her, only half-joking.

“For Your Royal Highness, Princess Constance, only a prince will do!”

“Better yet if he is a future king!”

“But of course!”

“I hope he will be easy to fall in love with, Princess Constance! Imagine, being forced to marry someone you do not have a _tendre_ for.”

“Ladies!” Came her mother’s Mistress of the Robes. She must have been sent to check on the younger ladies and their progress by the Queen. Had a servant announced her entry? In the commotion and all the camaraderie, she could not remember; but the Mistress of the Robes would not have done so unannounced. Whatever the circumstances that led the Mistress of the Robes to her chambers did not matter in the least at this point, however. The dutiful Arland ladies quickly organised themselves and curtseyed; Constance led them all in doing so. This did not seem to appease the stern woman, and her frown persisted.

It was only after a moment of silence, enough for them to feel ashamed at their flippant statements and frivolity, before the Mistress of the Robes cut the silence with terse words:

“I am disappointed in all of you,” she began. “Is this how you spend your time? Rather than working, and fulfilling your duty, your heads remain in the clouds. What is it to any of you, how Her Royal Highness fulfils her duty, so long as it is done? And since when do we focus on _les affaires du coeur_? We are _Arlish_ ; above all, we do our _duty_!”

The stress with which the Mistress of the Robes emphasised the words ‘Arlish’ and ‘Duty’ did not go unnoticed by the ladies, some of who were barely able to keep themselves from starting at that. Constance, of course, remained calm.

“From now on, not another whisper of frivolous things. Our princess does not go to the Summit for a lark; she goes to make us proud. She goes to represent to the rest of the world what is best about Arland. She will make a magnificent match, and will honour herself _and_ us by doing so. Is that understood?”

“Yes, my lady,” came the disjointed answer from the younger ladies-in-waiting. The Mistress of the Robes sniffed in response.

“I expect all of you to do your duty. Enough of this rabble. We must ensure our Princess appears to the admiration of all.”

“Yes, my lady.” The Mistress of the Robes nodded, before curtseying to her. “We hold great hopes for you, Your Royal Highness,” she said.

“I hope your trust in me proves worthy,” Constance replied.

“Of course. You are our Princess; I could not do less. By your leave, Your Royal Highness.”

Constance nodded, and with a sweep of her heavy robes, the Mistress of the Robes left the chambers.

The magical camaraderie had been broken, and the ladies worked in silence, only occasionally darting glances at her. Some were full of pity, some were scowls, some were ambivalence. All of them were accusing.

Constance had no control over how people acted. How could she shoulder the responsibilities of a country when she could not even control her ladies in waiting?

* * *

When she was younger, she would occasionally have panic attacks. It was rare, but frequent enough that her parents were concerned. Often it was in the context of crowds, with people crowing over her, the beautiful young princess. She’d begin to breathe rapidly, and then occasionally hold her breath. Sometimes her heart would raise. Sometimes, she would faint and remember nothing of the event until she regained consciousness, often once she was safely ensconced in her own chambers. It was a source of great consternation for her parents, for how could she do her duty by her people if it was such a trial to face them.

“She does not know how to behave around people,” her mother said, full of concern. “How can we have a princess who does not know how to act around her own people? How does she expect to instil confidence in them?”

“It was because of the crowds,” her father remarked. “They can be overwhelming for a child. We must find a way to get her to control them.”

When this failed, they sought help from experts.

“It’s all in her breathing; she needs to control her breathing,” a court doctor once advised her parents.

“And how can she do that, pray tell?” Her father was the very picture of composure. Was he not worried at all?

“Perhaps singing? If she needs to save her breath to sing a song, she cannot hyperventilate.”

It wasn’t a completely asinine suggestion. Thankfully, she had a sweet soprano. Though she would not be an opera singer, the thought of singing at least distracted her from the crowds.

It was considered somewhat _de trop_ to sing in public in Arland, of course, but it was a secret she held close to her chest. When she felt overwhelmed, rather than scream, she would take a deep breath and sing her heart out.

* * *

Back at the first night of the summit:

She could feel herself holding in her breath. Why? She was brave, she was not afraid, she could put aside her nerves and insecurities and focus on representing her kingdom in the best light. She would _not_ let nerves get the better of her. If only she could escape…

With measured steps, she tried to make her way to the balcony, trying to shake off some of her retinue, if only to find a quiet place of her own for her to sing, only to realise that the Corval delegation had already colonised the area. There was raucous laughter. She vaguely recognised one of the delegates who was the centre of it all; the Crown Prince Aamir. Dressed to the nines in gauzy silks, in a fashion so immodest to her Arlish sensibilities, she tried her hardest to avert her eyes from him.

And then, suddenly, he jumped on the rails of the balcony, and with admirable balance, broke into song.

She was mesmerised.

He sang a beautiful Corvallian love sonata. It was from the point of view of a love-stricken suitor, and she recognised it from her studies in foreign cultures.

“Why, Princess Constance – oh!”

It turned out that she was not as discreet as she thought she was in escaping her retinue.

“How shocking!” One of the Arlish delegates whispered. “Such a display of impropriety!”

Constance exhaled. They must have thought her trying to find a quiet place to contemplate and breathe some fresh air, only to accidentally stumble into the Corvallian delegation. They must not have realised that she was entranced by the lively spectacle.

Though the Arlish delegation were whispering, such a large company of people could not fail to produce a cacophony of sounds. Sadly, this was not as pleasing to the ears as the Corvallian impromptu musical theatre. _Their_ attention was caught.

“It’s the Arlish!” one of the Corvallian delegates exclaimed. Constance did not focus on who had said it, however. Her attention was captured by the Crown Prince.

 _He_ exuded a cool confidence, and smirked at that remark. “We ought to show the Arlish how a true Corvallian musicale is held.” He cleared his throat, and immediately a (lesser ranking) Corvallian noble announced. “His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Aamir of Corval.”

With an upturned chin, she looked significantly at one of the Arlish male delegates who had turned up beside her. “Her Royal Highness, Princess Constance of Arland.”

“Arland?” the Crown Prince assessed her with a cool gaze.

“From what I hear, Arland has a habit of selling off their princesses to the highest bidder,” one of the (clearly drunk) Corvallian delegates slurred with a lopsided smile.

It was instinct that forced Constance to raise a single eyebrow at the comment, and do no more. The Corvallian retinue looked gobsmacked, and the Arlish no better. Crown Prince Aamir did not look discomposed, but merely said, “If they are truly that valuable, why, colour me unsurprised, Ayyub.” He turned to Constance, fixing her with yet another penetrating gaze. “I am used to having the most valuable possession, Your Royal Highness.”

She curtseyed, acknowledging his due departure. “It serves me well that I am a person, rather than an object then, Your Royal Highness.”

He smirked and sauntered off. The Corvallian retinue hurried after him, and she heard the entire Arlish company exhale in relief.

She had not even realised that she had held her breath then.

* * *

There was a kind of thrill that flowed in her veins, realising that she was the most eligible female delegate. It was unsurprising. She had been raised, brought up to be a jewel of any Royal Court. She could mould herself into whatever the kingdoms wanted her to be. She was beautiful, she was not unintelligent, she was feminine, she was well-mannered. And the noblemen and ladies swooned over her every step. She was proving to be quite the popular princess.

Did that mean she would be lucky enough to find her own happy ending, as the heroines did in children’s fairytales? She would not hold her breath.

The invitations came shortly after. Piles and piles of them. She had to recruit the servants to help with answering them all. Sometimes with an affirmative, sometimes with a regretful no, but offering another time instead to meet and converse.

Eclipsing all of the invitations, however, was a beautifully arranged and tasteful bouquet of flowers, unique to Vail Island, if she was not mistaken. With it came a card in the most beautiful penmanship she had ever seen:

_I had once promised to show the Arlish how a true Corvallian musicale is held._

_\- Crown Prince Aamir of Corval_

She tried – in vain – to keep her heart from fluttering. She held her breath, feeling as though she would burst into song.

Perhaps duty could lead to happiness. She could only hope.

* * *

**_Fin_ **

**Author's Note:**

> He took her breath away. Poor, naive Constance. Who knows what goes on in the Machiavellian Crown Prince's mind? 
> 
> Reviews and kudos are love.


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